Slings and Arrows
by shoreleave
Summary: Written for the prompt "Five times Jim felt something other than fear in the face of death, and one time he didn't." Starts with Tarsus IV.
1. Apathy

**A/N: **This will probably be angsty and contain lots of h/c... Be forewarned. Reviews welcomed.

Beta'd by Saharra Shadow.

* * *

**Apathy**

Jim lies on the ground, so quiet and still, in the hot afternoon sun, only partially hidden by the long grass. There's no reason to hide anymore. He knows it's over.

From his perch on the hillside, he sees the shuttles arrive, hears the phaser shots, the grenades and the shouting. He watches it all, and when it's quiet again, he just stretches out on the ground and sleeps for hours.

When he wakes, he doesn't try to contact the Starfleet personnel. He doesn't draw any attention to himself. Instead, he watches indifferently. It all seems remote and unrelated to him. The officers move around energetically, gesturing toward the buildings and organizing equipment. Some are shouting and directing the others as they carry stretchers, search the buildings, and herd the survivors into shuttles.

He feels numb. All of the others have been taken, and he knows he'll never see them again. Even the kids, his best friend Tom and little Kevin, are gone now. He saw Tom get caught in the blast, his face horribly burned. He's dead too. And poor Kevin hasn't been seen for days. He doesn't want to think about what could have happened to him. Caring takes too much energy at this point. He's tired, so very tired.

So he just lies there quietly and lets his mind drift. Moving is painful; he's too weak to go very far anyway. His skin is pale and his lips chapped from dehydration. He hasn't had anything to eat in two days, but he's not really hungry anymore. His mouth is full of sores, and every time he swallows, he feels like there are shards of glass in his throat.

For once in his life, he's decided that he won't interfere with fate. Whatever happens, happens. He won't resist and he won't fight. He'll just let it come. Death can't be so bad, certainly not as painful as these last few weeks have been.

He stares up at the sky. The clouds are really striking, he thinks, fluffy and soft and enormous. Both of Tarsus' moons are visible. He hasn't actually looked at the sky for so long, not since he finally gave up scanning the night sky for signs of rescue. But now, with absolutely nothing left for him to do, he can lie back and appreciate the exotic, alien landscape. He relaxes and tries to savor the image. There's a light breeze making the leaves wave gently overhead. It's almost unbearably beautiful.

He's glad that these will be his last thoughts. He closes his eyes and lets himself drift away.

* * *

"There's a kid here, Chris."

"Yeah, I see him."

"God. Another dead one. I can't stand this…"

The voices barely penetrate his hazy consciousness.

Suddenly there are rough hands feeling his forehead and pressing at his neck, and he's being shaken gently. "He's not dead. But he's not far from it," one of the voices says.

Despite the intrusive touch, Jim feels a sense of relief. Not long to wait, then.

"Kid? You hear me?" a voice whispers at his ear. "It's okay. We're Starfleet."

_How could that make it okay? _he thinks in disgust, roused despite himself. _You're way too late. Stupid fools!_

"Look at his face, Chris, how sunken his eyes are. He's dehydrated," the other one says.

"I know."

Jim hears the slosh of a water bottle, and suddenly his lips are being wet with a finger. He licks instinctively, and the finger is replaced by the palm of someone's hand, wet and salty and pressed at his mouth. Jim tongues the hand, reaching for the soothing drops of water. They feel good on his parched throat, and he swallows despite the pain.

"Good, that's right. Slowly, kid, slowly."

Jim opens his eyes. A lean, dark-haired man is leaning over him, his blue eyes concerned and intent. He splashes more water on his palm and places it against Jim's mouth. Jim feels a little like an animal, stretching out his tongue and licking.

_An animal. That's what I've become._

Abruptly, he closes his mouth and turns his head to the side. He doesn't want to recover, and he doesn't want to face these two good-hearted innocents from the 'Fleet. He wants to be left here to die.

Naturally, they don't leave him be. They speak soothing words and ask him questions, but he doesn't have the energy or inclination to respond. One of them picks him up gently and carries him, despite his feeble protestations, back to their shuttle.

* * *

"Tell me your name, kid."

"It's Jim."

"Jim what?"

Jim shrugs and looks away. "Just Jim." He's in the sickbay of the _Hercules_, an IV unit hooked up to his arm and a biomonitor on his ankle.

"Look, I've told you who_ I_ am. Lieutenant Christopher Pike. I'm the helmsman." Pike cocks his head to the side, looking at him intently.

"I remember. I'm not stupid."

Pike ignores his surly response. "It's important that we know who you are so we can contact your relatives."

"Well, I'm not telling, Lieutenant Pike," he says, looking up at him defiantly. "Just bring me back to Earth, and I'll make my own way, okay? All my relatives died on Tarsus."

Pike looks skeptical, but doesn't push it. "How old are you, Jim?"

"I'm thirteen. Uh, no…fourteen. I had a birthday."

"And are you feeling any better?"

"I'm all right," he says, although he's still so weak he has to be helped to the bathroom, and he vomited up the first solid meal he tried to eat last night.

"Well, if you say so, then I guess you are," the lieutenant says.

Jim bristles at his sarcastic tone. "I don't like staying in the sickbay. I want to move around."

"You can leave whenever you want," Pike says, and Jim looks up, surprised. "_After_ Dr. Chang tells me that you've started eating regularly."

Jim leans back and stares at the ceiling. He's not playing this game.

Pike leaves without looking back.

* * *

Jim is the only unaccompanied child on board; Kodos liked to keep family groups together, for obvious reasons. Most children were already weak and frightened by the time the selections began. They preferred to stay with their families, even as they were being herded off to slaughter. Jim doesn't explain what happened to him or how he ended up alone, and he avoids the other refugees. It means he spends most of his time by himself, except for his brief interactions with the medical staff. That's fine by him, since he has nothing to say to anybody.

Lieutenant Pike comes around once a day, after he's finished his shift. Jim watches as he stops at each bed, talking quietly with the other refugees. Pike doesn't say much to Jim either, just "Eating yet?" or "Remembered your last name, kid?" Jim scowls at him and rolls his eyes.

This becomes pretty predictable after a week, and Jim's getting impatient. Eating isn't going very well yet. His stomach doesn't seem to want to tolerate anything, and while the IV drip keeps him hydrated and provides some nourishment, he's not gaining much weight. He's still weak and tired a lot. He refuses all of the medical staff's efforts to engage him in games and discussions.

He sits for a full hour, stony-faced and silent, with the ship's counselor. The counselor, a kindly-looking middle-aged officer, tells him that it's perfectly normal to feel angry and depressed. "You'll feel better if you share your experiences," he tells Jim. "You survived a terrible ordeal, and that shows tremendous strength." He's accepting, gentle, and supportive. Jim wants no part of it.

"I don't need your sympathy," he tells the man. "I'm not ashamed of anything I did."

The counselor leans forward. "What did you do, Jim?"

He doesn't answer.

* * *

Pike greets him cheerfully that evening. "Hey there. Remembered any relatives yet?"

"Shut up. They all died. I told you that," he says sullenly.

"Oh, right. Thing is, kid, I don't believe you."

"Well, fuck you, then. I don't give a shit what you believe."

Pike nods at him calmly, as if they're just exchanging pleasantries. "I'll make a deal with you, Jim. I'll show you the survivor list. I know you've been asking around about it."

"I want to see it now."

"On one condition."

Jim looks at him suspiciously. "What condition?" he asks, knowing the answer.

"You'll talk to the counselor again. _Really_ talk." Jim glares and shakes his head. "Fine, kid. I'm a patient guy. It's a long trip back to Earth, and the offer stands."

* * *

Jim caves in after a week. He can't stand not knowing who else is alive. He needs to know who else made it, aside from the small number of colonists travelling back on the _Hercules._ He tells the nurse that he wants to talk, and the counselor comes by that afternoon.

He's a nice man, and Jim knows that he means well. "I won't talk about Kodos," Jim stipulates at the outset. "I won't talk about what happened after," he says, and the man nods understandingly. He doesn't say _after the selections_ or _after the massacre_. "I don't want to tell you about my family, either," he continues.

"What do you want to talk about, then, Jim?"

"I'll tell you about what it was like _before_."

He describes planting the family garden, designing the watering system, and discovering which plants survived best. He talks about their neighbors, the Satos, where he and his friend Tom went for language lessons in the afternoons. He explains about cooperative farming and the way the equipment was shared, and launches into a detailed description of the colonial governing board. Nothing too personal, but the counselor is satisfied.

"I'm glad you've started opening up, Jim. That's the first step on the road to recovery."

Jim smiles and nods.

* * *

"Show me the fucking list, lieutenant," he says that evening when Pike comes around. "I talked to that counselor."

"I know you did. He spoke to me earlier. Said you're very intelligent and careful. And that you're very guarded. You didn't tell him what happened to you or your family."

"Well, that wasn't part of the deal."

"No, it wasn't," Pike agrees. He keys in the file on a PADD and hands it to him. Holding his breath, Jim taps his finger on the screen.

There are two lists; survivors and deceased. Jim thinks carefully of everyone he knows, one by one, and checks both lists. After a while, he opens a separate file, and scribbles on the PADD with the stylus.

"What are you doing? Is something wrong?"

Jim shakes his head. "Your list is incomplete," he says without looking up. "I watched these people die."

The lieutenant says nothing, and Jim appreciates that. Pike doesn't flinch away and doesn't ask if Jim is sure. He just nods and waits.

There are no surprises, but it's hard to see so many personal tragedies reduced to names on a list. Thousands of people, dead within a few short weeks. Each name that he recognizes brings back memories, and Jim starts to sweat. He has to fight the urge to fling the PADD at the wall and bury his head under the blanket.

"What's the matter, son?" Pike asks, looking concerned. "Did you find your relatives?"

"Deceased!" he snaps. "I told you."

"I'm sorry," Pike tells him quietly, and he looks genuinely sympathetic.

Steeling himself, Jim checks for Tom Leighton, his closest friend. Last time he saw him, Tom was badly injured. He doesn't think he could have survived, but he isn't on the deceased list.

His heart nearly stops when he sees that Tom is listed on the _Orion_: alive and in serious condition, but not dead. He breathes faster. When he finds Kevin Riley on the same ship, his composure starts to crack. He puts the PADD down because his hands are shaking. He doesn't cry, but he's blinking hard and almost hyperventilating. Pike is watching him quietly.

"My friends…" he blurts out. "They're still alive. They're on the _Orion._"

"That's good, Jim. We can contact them if you want."

After a while, Jim takes a shuddering, deep breath and picks up the PADD again. He goes over the list of survivors, one by one, making sure that he hasn't missed anyone he knows. Some of the names are Kodos' guards. Others he recognizes as members of the colony council that supported the decision to make the selection. He continues reading slowly, his breathing gradually returning to normal. The survivors are listed by the name of the rescue ship: the _Orion, _the _Adventure, _the _Libra, _the _Elijah Jones_, and finally, the _Hercules._

As he skims the last list, he is stunned to see own name. _Kirk, James T. Age: 14. Transport: Hercules. Status: malnutrition._

He looks at Pike accusingly. "You listed me as a passenger. You've known my name all along."

Pike is unapologetic. "You told me your age, back at the beginning. There were three boys named James on Tarsus, according to colony records. Only one was fourteen. I was able to access your family's application, and there was a picture of you."

"You had no right to do that!"

"Of course I had the right, son. You were claiming orphan status, and that would make Starfleet responsible for you until arrangements could be made for your care. I was just making sure that you were really alone."

"You manipulated me!" he hisses, unsure why he is so angry.

"Maybe I did," Pike says levelly. "You were lying."

Jim looks at the floor. He wasn't really lying; his relatives _are _dead and his mother hasn't been around for years. And his stepfather…There is no way he'll live with him again. Better to be on his own.

"You need to contact your mother, Jim," Pike tells him.

"No. It's better this way."

"It's all right to admit that you need a family. You're not alone."

"I might as well be." His voice cracks slightly and he swallows hard.

"Look, Jim, I've spoken with her. She knows you're safe and heading back to Earth, but…you should talk to her."

"Why? She doesn't want me!" he says bitterly. "I was always too much trouble for her."

"She's your mother."

Jim shrugs. "She's a scientist. She'd rather be out in the black."

"So many children lost their mothers on Tarsus, Jim." Pike's voice is gentle. "You've still got one."

"She sent me away," he whispers. He doesn't cry but his throat is so tight he can hardly breathe.

Pike squeezes his thin shoulder. "She told me," he says. "But she's waiting for you now."


	2. Guilt

**Chapter Two: Guilt**

**A/N:** Based on the TOS episode "Obsession," which refers to Jim's disastrous experiences as a young lieutenant on the Farragut on his first deep-space assignment. I've changed the details a little to make it work on the Reboot timeline.

* * *

This is his first long-range training mission. He's been on gamma shift for most of it, doing mostly menial tasks in armaments and engineering with two other third-year cadets. They've been supervised by a grumpy weapons specialist named Simmons, who is obviously less than thrilled to be their mentor. Jim's been determined to make a good impression anyway. The _Farragut_'s not the flagship, but it's a taste of what Jim's life could be, in another two years. And Garrovick's a good captain. He wouldn't mind serving under him, at least for a few years.

Simmons has made no secret of the fact that he thinks training cadets is not part of his job description. He's hated Jim in particular, ever since he made the mistake of suggesting an improved method of assigning torpedo targets using Kay's sorting algorithm. Simmons promptly informed Jim that since he seemed to have so many _good ideas_, he can spend the rest of his training cruise in the lab, running weapons sims to his heart's content.

Jim tries to make the best of it, but the truth is that he feels that he's missing out. Instead of gaining valuable hands-on experience, he's been spending most of his shifts alone, doing the same kind of work he could be doing in an Academy sim lab. He spends each day programming the simulator, manipulating the variables, and writing reports. The other two cadets, who had the sense to keep their mouth shut and not suggest any clever improvements, have also been given boring, repetitive assignments, but at least they're in the main bay with the other crewmen.

****

Jim's alone in the weapons sim lab, as usual, when the ship is placed on yellow alert.

Jim tenses and stops what he's doing when the strip of amber lights begins blinking above his console. Cadet runs are supposed to be uneventful, and the last three weeks aboard the _Farragut_ have been no exception. They've been surveying and mapping an uninhabited system. They're not supposed to run into any trouble.

Garrovick's deep voice resonates reassuringly over the intercom, even as he explains that the away team on the planet below has been killed. "The landing party reported a gaseous, translucent cloud that changes in shape and size," Garrovick tells them succinctly. "It seems to feed on human blood. Highly dangerous. We are maintaining orbit around the planet in an attempt to identify and destroy it."

Jim quickly exits the lab and locates Simmons in the main weapons bay. Watching the flurry of activity as the regular weapons crew organizes drills and practices emergency response protocols, Jim can feel the adrenaline humming through his bloodstream. He can barely contain his disappointment when Simmons assigns him the non-essential task of calculating ion dispersal and refraction in phaser sims. Alone, of course.

"But the other cadets are working with the tactical response teams," he tells Simmons. "Let me do something more useful. I'm quick and I'm good with my hands. I can—"

"You can stay out of the way, Kirk," Simmons responds tersely. "I don't have time to hold the hand of any green cadet. This is no drill."

"Yes, sir," Jim says, keeping the resentment out of his voice, although a muscle in his jaw twitches. _Passive-aggressive asshole._

"Take a phaser, Kirk," Simmons reminds him, pointing to the weapons dispensary. "Standard procedure during alerts. All crewmen must be armed." He smirks. "Even in the sim lab."

Trying to reign in his frustration, Jim nods and grabs a hand phaser, then goes back to the lab. He works methodically, running the phaser sim using varying concentrations of dikironium, an atmospheric anomaly which was detected on the planet in the area where the landing party was killed, and recording the results. The results are mostly inconclusive, although some trials suggest that wide phaser dispersion causes an unexpected chemical reaction, rendering a certain percentage of dikironium molecules inert. Jim is intrigued, and despite his animosity toward Simmons, he delves into the problem, varying atmospheric pressure, humidity, and levels of various gaseous elements.

He wonders briefly what Bones would say if he could see him. _Nobody likes to be made a fool of, Jim,_ he'd probably say. _Serves you right for showing off._

He sighs. He can always count on McCoy to tell him the truth.

Jim continues his calculations. It's an intellectual exercise, probably less than useless in the field, but he can't give Simmons another reason to fault him. He needs an exemplary rating for this assignment if he wants to convince Pike to let him continue in the accelerated command track, especially after last month's Kobayashi Maru fiasco.

It wasn't just failing to find a way out of the situation. From what he could discover, that seemed to be the standard outcome for all cadets. Everybody failed the Maru, though Jim had arrogantly believed that he'd be able to find a way to beat it. He prided himself on his intelligence and his ability to think outside the box. But when he began to realize that nothing he tried was going to work, and the ship that he commanded was going to fail in its rescue mission and be destroyed itself, he lost his composure. He shouted at the hapless helmsman whose evasive maneuvers weren't effective, and used a withering sarcasm to express his displeasure at the communications officer, who couldn't seem to keep a channel open for negotiations. He'd been overcome by a fury that he couldn't control, and had barely been able to thank the other cadets for their participation at the end of the simulation.

His performance evaluation praised his tactical maneuvering but concluded, "Cadet Kirk failed to adequately control his frustration with the challenges of the Maru simulation, and his interactions with his bridge crew indicated poor impulse control and immaturity. His actions ultimately compromised his crew's morale during the height of the crisis."

"You let them down," Pike tells him afterward in his debriefing. His words are stern, but his voice is surprisingly gentle. "You have to put your own issues aside, especially when you're in command in a crisis situation." Pike doesn't discuss which _issues_ he thinks Jim has, but he looks at him meaningfully, and Jim flushes. Pike assigns him extra reading on leadership and crisis management, and makes him write a performance analysis of his decision-making process.

Jim needs to prove, both to Pike and to himself, that he hasn't lost his edge.

****

He is startled out of his concentration by the wail of the red alert siren.

"Attention, crew," Garrovick's voice booms out over the intercom, no longer as calm as before. "Be on high alert. We have detected variations in dikironium levels on Decks 7 and 8. It is possible the cloud creature has somehow infiltrated the ship…"

Jim whirls out of his seat and, taking his phaser in hand, moves warily out of the sim lab into the main weapons bay. As the door opens, he freezes. There's no one there, even though when he began his shift, there were more than a dozen men and women working at various stations in the large weapons bay on Deck 8. Except for the humming of the machinery and the wailing of the red alert siren, there are no sounds at all. The scuffle of booted feet on the floor and the ever-present buzz of communication between his crewmates is gone.

He feels a momentary panic at the idea that he's been forgotten, left behind at his post in the simulations lab, buried in complex calculations, while everyone else evacuates the area. He's only a cadet, not part of the regular crew, and only the watch officer knows where he was working. It's possible that no one even remembers he's there.

The weapons bay is eerily quiet, and Jim's gut is screaming _danger. _He takes two quick steps forward and then huddles quietly behind the main weapons board, trying to come up with a rational explanation for why every crewman has suddenly deserted his post in the midst of an emergency. He can think of only a few possibilities, and none of them bode well for him.

He weighs his options. He can stay where he is, hail the bridge, and ask for his orders. This option has the advantage of being potentially heroic. Captain Garrovick will surely appreciate the one cadet who has remained in the face of danger to singlehandedly maintain the weapons bay. On the other hand, who is he kidding; the only thing he knows how to do competently, thanks to Simmons, is run computerized simulations under lab conditions, not operate the main weapons console. And that aside, Jim knows that _something_ made everyone else abandon the area, and he doesn't really want to stick around to find out what it is.

Alternatively, he can made a quick dash for the nearest exit and try to make his way to the bridge, or at least somewhere populated. He's got his phaser, and he's blessed with quick reflexes. He figures he has a good chance of escaping a hovering cloud.

He's five meters from the exit when he sees them.

There are fourteen people—no, bodies, he can see immediately that they're dead—scattered on the floor, between the torpedo chambers and exit. The exposed skin of their hands and faces is ghostly white, as if all of their blood has been sucked out of their bodies. Their faces are contorted in agony; they look like they died in horrible pain. Jim can see Simmons among them, hunched over a female engineer in a post that suggests he was trying to protect her. He's dead too. All of the bodies are clustered around the exit, some with phasers still clasped in their fists, as though they were trying to escape, or trying to stop something from escaping through the door.

_It's looking for more victims_, he thinks, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. _God, it's hunting us in our own ship…_

He steps cautiously around the bodies and out the door, and moves into the corridor. Here, again, he finds only dead bodies bearing expressions of anguish. He steps past dozens of them, and finds himself filled with a sense of visceral horror. Is there anyone else left alive on the ship?

It's not the first time he's been hunted.

The thought steadies him. He didn't give in to panic when he was a kid, and he won't do it now. But back then he was being tracked by Kodos' security forces, and as young as he was, he knew instinctively how to fight them. How can he fight a _cloud_? A wisp of gas?

He tightens his fingers on the phaser grip, then looks down at it, frowning. It's set to kill on tight beam, which is the standard setting on red alert. Just like Simmons' phaser was. Just like every other phaser on the ship…

It's a mistake, he realizes suddenly, thinking of the phaser sims. Tight beam is useless on a gas. 

Dispersion beams turn dikironium inert under certain conditions…_ Dispersion beams.  
_

_Shit._

He has to get to Captain Garrovick, and tell the rest of the crew. This is vital information. He's got to get to a lift and make his way to the bridge.

He changes his phaser setting to wide scatter and adjusts the burst pattern, then breaks into a run.

****

It's the odor that does him in.

A whiff of a long-forgotten scent reaches him from out of nowhere, startling him into a momentary standstill. Jim skids to a lurching stop, mere steps away from the lift, chest heaving, confused.

_It's impossible. _There's nothing but filtered, recycled air on a starship. But the sweet fragrance of honeysuckle is in the air, nevertheless.

The smell is automatically connected to a memory, one that he's forgotten he had. It instantly recalls him to a place and a time that he's spent years shoving away from his conscious awareness. Jim has trained himself to stay away from thoughts of his childhood; _don't go there_ is his motto and it has served him well enough. The few memories he retains seem to surface, uninvited, when he's had a little too much to drink; or hover, ephemeral and fleeting, just after he wakes.

He's developed a few workable "coping mechanisms," in the words of that useless counselor on the _Hercules_. If the memories bubble up when he's had one too many, he finds an outlet in a good punch (giving or getting, it doesn't much matter) or, if he's lucky, in a more pleasurable form of flesh-on-flesh contact. He's cultivated a blatant lack of curiosity about his dreams. He doesn't attend Remembrance Day services, and if Pike doesn't like it, he can just shove it. And he _never_ talks about what happened when he was fourteen.

But this memory isn't bad; it's serene and pleasant. The unmistakable scent of honeysuckle (which _can't be_, what the fuck is wrong with him) brings him back with startling clarity to a long-lost scene from his childhood. He must have been very small, no more than three or four. It was a picnic in a public park of some sort; he can't recognize exactly where, but he can hear the sounds of cutlery clinking and adults chattering. Jim is tired, and lays drowsily in his mother's arms, lulled by the warm late-afternoon sunshine and enjoying the delicious honey-like smell in the air. Even now, light-years away and in the midst of crisis, Jim remembers the contentment of that moment, as he folded his body into the comfort of her lap.

For a second, maybe two, he is distracted by the intensity of the recollection.

It takes Jim much too long to realize that he is being attacked.

He sees the thin, gaseous mist seeping into the corridor of the _Farragut_ through the air vent next to the lift, but he's still disoriented by the memory. It's as if the relaxed, drowsy feeling of the memory is acting like a very mild sedative, dulling his thinking and slowing his responses slightly.

It reaches for him. As the first, wispy tendrils connect with his skin, he comes to his senses and fires.

It's too late. Oh God, he thinks, we're all going to die, and _I could have stopped this_.

Pain flares along his nerves, everywhere at once, and he gasps. He fires again, holding the trigger as long as his fingers will allow, but he can't keep his grip on the weapon. His fingers feel like they're burning, as if the nerve endings have suddenly been exposed all at once. Jim cries out helplessly, dropping the weapon, and it falls with a clatter to the floor. His knees crumple and he can feel himself falling, moaning in pain.

_(Triumph. Fullness. Satisfaction.)_

At the edge of his awareness he senses a malevolent _intelligence _in the corridor with him. It is a sensate presence that connects with him, absorbing his panic and pain and, God help him, his blood.

_(Eagerness. More. Attack.)_

Jim knows that he is about to die, and that the creature is still on the hunt. It's not a cloud, it's _alive_, he thinks, but he can't hold a coherent train of thought.

****

_He's so cold._

_There are voices around him, shouting, but he's frozen, shivering naked on an exposed mountain. He hears the clink of metal instruments, the hiss of a spray._

_It's all so very far away._

****

"Jim," a voice says, penetrating his awareness. "Come on, Jim, I know you can hear me now. Wake up, kiddo."

"Bones," he breathes. His eyelids are so heavy, but he manages to lift them. "Where—"

"You're in the Fleet hospital." Jim is confused. It doesn't make sense, and he can't remember how he got there. "Do you remember what happened to you, Jim?"

He tries, but can only recall a vague sense of horror and the smell of honeysuckle.

"'m tired," he mumbles. "So cold…"

"It's the blood loss," Bones tells him. "It's okay, Jim. Go back to sleep."

****

The next time he wakes, he's more coherent and doesn't feel so exhausted. He's covered in a thermal blanket. Bones is there again, looking exhausted, pale and unshaven.

"You look like shit," he tells him.

"Right back at you, kid." Bones gives him a small smile, but his eyes are concerned. "You're not quite as white as the sheet anymore, but it was a fucking close call."

Jim shakes his head in disbelief. "I thought I was dying…I thought we all were."

"Well, you _don't_ want to know how many transfusions you've had. You have more luck than any ten people I know, Jim."

Jim snorts. "Right. Lucky me. Just one more in a long string of fortunate events that started the day I was born."

McCoy scowls at him. "Depends how you look at it, asshole. You're alive."

"How many died, Bones?" McCoy doesn't answer, and Jim looks steadily at him. "Don't give me that 'wait until you're recovered' crap. Just tell me. I know it was bad."

Bones sighs. "I'll tell you because it's all over the news vids, and I'd rather you hear it from me. It was nearly half the crew, Jim. Two hundred men and women. Captain Garrovick too."

"And the other two cadets," Jim says tonelessly. "I know."

"And you _are_ lucky, Jim. They told me the cloud left the Farragut about a minute after you collapsed, God knows why."

"I guess it wasn't thirsty anymore," he says in quiet fury. "It drank up enough of our blood."

"Jesus, Jim," Bones says. "You have no idea what it's been like for the past two weeks. Nobody would release any information until two days ago when the ship docked, although it was clear that there'd been a disaster. All Pike would tell me was that you were alive and unconscious."

Jim is silent. It's coming back to him, the horror of finding himself alone. The mad dash down the corridor, stepping over dead bodies. The beguiling smell of honeysuckle and his goddamn hesitation that cost so many lives…

"You're going to be fine, Jim. Another week or so, and you'll be good as new."

Jim grunts. "No, Bones. Not good as new."

"I didn't mean—"

"It was my fault."

McCoy shakes his head at him. "Don't be stupid, kid. The ship was attacked and you happened to be on it. This is survivor's guilt talking."

"No," Jim whispers in self-loathing. "I hesitated. I could have shot it, I _knew_ how to kill it, but I froze. I…I lost concentration. There was a smell—"

"No, Jim!" Bones says sharply, raising his voice. "You are _not_ responsible for the deaths of two hundred people! I talked to Pike, Jim. Almost all of the deaths occurred before you even left the weapons bay. He said it was some kind of poisonous gas. You can't fight that with a phaser."

"That's not what it was. It was a creature and it was alive, Bones. I _felt _it."

"The mind plays tricks on us when we lose consciousness, Jim," McCoy tells him gently. "You can't trust anything you were thinking just then. Memory's a funny thing."

"I knew what to do," he says, more to himself than to his friend. "I could have stopped it."

"No, Jim. You had a hand-held phaser, same as everyone else. Pike told me he reviewed the security recordings. You went after it alone, even though your entire team had been taken down. It was heroic, kid…but it wouldn't have worked."

"I'm in a slump, Bones," he says, feeling his eyes watering and brushing the tears away angrily. He must be more tired than he thought. He hasn't cried since he was a boy. "First the Maru, now this."

"You'll be back on your feet in no time, Jim. Focus on that," McCoy says, squeezing his shoulder gently. "Come on, Jim, it's over. Be glad you're alive. Wait until you're a little stronger, and then you can get back in the game."

Jim is silent for a minute, then nods as if he's come to some sort of a decision. "That's not a bad idea, Bones."

"What?" McCoy asks warily.

"Get back in the game, you said. The Kobayashi Maru. I'm going to take the test again."

"The hell you are!" Bones tells him angrily. "Once was enough, you idiot. Your liver can't stand another one. What are you, a fucking masochist?"

"I can't let it win."

"Who's 'it,' Jim? The Maru? Or that damn poison cloud?"

Jim shrugs. "Doesn't matter," he says quietly. "I have to beat it."


	3. Relief

**Relief**

**A/N:** I know, I know, this is pure, self-indulgent angst. I have no excuse. Read at your own risk.

****

Jim's so tired. It's been going on for so long, seven days already, and there's no end in sight.

He sits hunched over in the corner of his cell, knees bent, leaning against the wall and shivering. He's naked, and the packed clay floor is grimy, cold, and wet. It's hosed down once a day, and that dirty water is his only source of sustenance. He's been given no food, which seems to indicate that his captors are not interested in keeping him alive for very long.

Their eyes don't seem to be very expressive; they observe him continually with a wide, fixed stare which makes him shudder. They must find him as alien as he sees them. If they've been trying to communicate with him, with their breathy, birdlike twitters and squawks, he hasn't been able to understand a word of it. They certainly seem to be talking up a storm among themselves, though; he hears constant streams of whistles and trills, punctuated by odd twists and curls of their head crests.

But in response to his whispered utterances, cries, and groans, they go silent. Only their feathered crests twitch and bend.

By the second day, he understands that they seek no information from him; they're keeping him out of scientific curiosity. He has a theory, which gives him a small sense of comfort. He thinks that maybe this is their way of trying to protect their species, so they want to find out what weaknesses the human body has in a sort of twisted form of self-defense. Maybe, he thinks, they're the local version of scientists, and this is a laboratory or zoo.

_Or maybe they're just sadists._ That's his alternate theory, but he doesn't like to think about that much.

Specifically, they seem to be fascinated with the limits of his physical endurance. They've examined how far his joints can stretch without dislocating (it's trial and error, so they went a little far the first few times), how different limbs react to pressure (it took a lot more force to break a thigh bone than a finger, but they figured it out eventually by themselves), and how his skin reacts to concentrated heat (they'd been fascinated by the deep red color of the burns, and the liquid-filled blisters). They've even discovered an auditory frequency that makes his ears bleed and renders him temporarily unconscious. It's possible that the lack of food is just another area of research: they're interested in learning about the effects of starvation on the human body. (Of course, he could have told them all about that, but they haven't asked him.)

Fortunately, some of the experiments have been unsuccessful. He gets a bit of a respite when they investigate how he responds to varying intensities of light and darkness. He imagines them shaking their heads, recording failure after failure when they click the lights on and off. They try restraining his limbs, hoping to produce a panicked frenzy, he supposes. He doesn't oblige them, although the straps are more than a little uncomfortable, pulling on his dislocated shoulder and broken leg. He laughs at them for their troubles, which provokes such an agitated squawking that he laughs even harder.

"I know you haven't run out of ideas yet," he tells them confidentially, "but you could try tickling me. Just for scientific purposes, of course."

They just stare back at him, unblinking. _Assholes._

He read once that an adult male can survive for over a month on water alone. Certain factors, such as his overall good state of health and muscle mass (at the beginning of his captivity, at least), could grant him a survival advantage, and there's no shortage of water: he can have as much as he's inclined to lick from the floor. In between sessions, they generously allow him to rest and conserve his energy. On the other hand, he was on the thin side when it all started, and an extra kilo or two could have come in handy.

He knows from experience not to fantasize too much about food. Instead, he dreams of his beautiful ship. He walks every pristine corridor, visits with Bones in the Medbay, shares a drink with Scotty in the Officer's Lounge. He plays virtual chess with a virtual Spock, and tries not to lose too quickly. But Spock always creams him eventually. He can't seem to concentrate, can't plan more than one or two moves ahead.

He's becoming demoralized, losing hope. He can't think. He's in constant pain now from the broken bones, burns, and dislocated joints. It's hard to find a comfortable position. His ears feel as if someone has stuck a knife through them that twists whenever he swallows. His head pounds incessantly.

Surely he would have been rescued by now, if Spock could have located his biosignals from the _Enterprise. _Maybe they've taken him somewhere that blocks the ship's sensors.

He won't give up, because he is who he is. But they need to come soon, because he can't hold on for much longer.

****

When his captors show up the next day, he tries to resist, but it's getting so hard. They don't touch him this time, but within a few minutes he becomes uncomfortably aware that the temperature in his cell is significantly lower. His teeth start chattering, and he hunches his elbows close to his body.

They're obviously exploring the effects of cold on the human body; a good choice, he wants to tell them. He's an Iowa farmboy and no stranger to the cold. On the other hand, his resistance is low already, and a good dose of hypothermia will probably be enough to finish him off. He's too exhausted to be sorry, and there's nothing he can do to stop it, anyway.

It won't be too painful; he'll just drift off to sleep.

He starts talking to keep himself aware and alert, but it's hard to get the words out. "Look, guys, I know how this is going to end," he grunts out. "Hypothermia. Had it when I was a kid." He's breathing faster, and shivering. The cold yellow eyes of his observers stare at him expressionlessly, but their head crests are active, trembling and twisting. He thinks this is a sign of excitement. They've discovered some new weakness in the human body; their twittering and whistling increases.

"Iowa winters," he says. "Can't beat 'em for cold."

_****_

_He was eight, maybe nine, knee-deep in fresh snow. He'd been having a snow fight with Sam and some of the older boys. Sam usually didn't include him in his activities with his friends, so he played with complete dedication, determined to prove himself a worthy teammate. He even agreed to let himself serve as a distraction while Sam and his buddies circled around in an ambush of the other team. Joe Canner stuffed snow down his back, which had made him shriek with the sudden discomfort and the shock of the cold, but then Sam and his friend Dave had come racing in, pelting the others with a barrage of snowballs that sent them running._

_They all laughed hysterically, and then Sam had left to go to Dave's house, yelling over his shoulder, "Go home, Jim, it's getting dark."_

_"Sure," he'd agreed, but instead of heading back to the farm house, he'd walked off in the other direction, toward the river._

****

The puddles of water on the cell floor have crusted over with thin ice. He huddles into himself, trying to conserve warmth, though he's not sure why. It doesn't matter.

"Didn' wanna go home," he says, knowing that they can't understand. He feels like it's important to explain what happened. "Jus' kept walking along the riverbank. Wasn' allowed to go there alone. Knew I'd get in trouble, but… It was so quiet there, on the bank…"

_****_

_He wasn't supposed to go near the river by himself, but he felt drawn to it. It was partly frozen now, and beautiful: the snow-covered banks, the barren trees hanging with icicles, the rush of the dark water in the dusky light. It was completely quiet. He sat down, curling his legs under him and leaning back against a tree._

_Jim didn't mind being alone, and this kind of natural quiet didn't bother him. It was a different kind of quiet that he was avoiding: the ominous, artificial silence of his house. Jim always tried to be as inconspicuous as possible, not wanting to draw attention to himself beyond what was absolutely necessary. Sam, if he was around at all, spent most of his time in his room with the door locked. Dinners at their house contained long stretches of awkward silence, broken only by the clink of utensils and Frank's low, rumbling voice with his occasional question about their behavior at school or their homework. _

_Tonight wouldn't be quiet, though, he knew. His clothes were soaked through and muddy. Frank would be furious. He'd left his chores undone, too excited by the heavy snowfall to complete them that afternoon. He'd told himself that he'd come home early and do them before Frank got back from work, but then he'd been so involved in the snowfight, so thrilled that Sam had included him, that he'd stayed out much later than he'd intended._

_Now he didn't want to go home, because he knew what was coming. Staying out late, in the dark, near the river—that was just making things worse, but he couldn't tear himself away from the hypnotic rush of the river. The gurgling of the water was soothing. He was getting sleepy._

****

He shivers violently. He stares at his hands: the fingertips are bluish, and he can't move his broken fingers much. But they don't hurt like they did before, and that's a good thing.

It's over, he knows, and that's all right. He's held out for long enough; his crew will find him eventually, and know that he fought and didn't give in. He feels a sharp pang of horror at the thought of Bones discovering his wasted, broken body, but he can't concentrate on that image for long. He can feel himself drifting, until the pain is far away.

He can't remember where he is, but it doesn't matter. He isn't worried anymore. He can rest.

His vision is blurring. He can still see the gleaming golden irises of those alien eyes, but their claw-like hands seem to shimmer. His vision is tunneling; he can no longer discern the walls of the cell. It makes him nauseous, and he closes his eyes. He's so tired.

He decides not to tell them the rest of the story. They're not listening, and it had a bad ending, anyway.

_****_

_"What's the matter with you, you stupid kid!" He felt himself being shaken, his cheeks slapped. Frank was yelling in his ear, shining a sharp light in his face. "Never seen a more irresponsible boy! Get up!"_

_"I'm sorry," he mumbled automatically, trying unsuccessfully to move his sluggish limbs. His lower body felt numb, and he was disoriented by Frank's sudden appearance. It wasn't yet completely dark; he couldn't have been sleeping for more than ten minutes. "How did you—"_

_"Got home early and saw the mess you'd left. Called Sam and he told me where you'd been playing. I followed your tracks in the snow out here. Don't you have any common sense? What the hell were you thinking?"_

_"I was going to—"_

_"Don't give me any of your smartass excuses. How many times have I told you to stay away from the river?" Frank's face was contorted with anger and, Jim admitted, worry. "This time I'm gonna teach you a lesson that you won't forget."_

_"I just lost track of time," he said miserably. _

_"Shut up. I'll deal with you at home. It's too fucking cold out here." Frank yanked him unsympathetically onto his feet and pushed him in the direction of his hopper, headlights visible just over the bank. Jim climbed clumsily into the front seat. He was shaking with cold, teeth chattering uncontrollably._

_Frank shoved a towel at him. "Sit on that," he said. "Don't get the seat all muddy."_

****

His limbs are frozen and numb, but he can vaguely feel that someone is touching him, gently moving his arms and legs. It doesn't really hurt, but it draws him back from his dream, disrupts the pleasant, floaty sensation that has enveloped him.

"Careful with his arm. His shoulder's dislocated. And don't touch his right leg."

"Leave me 'lone," he mumbles.

"Jim, can you hear me?"

"I'm sorry," he says.

"What? Jim!" someone calls out harshly. "Wake up, kid. We're going to get you out of here, just hold on. I'm going to give you a stimulant."

He feels a sharp pressure at the junction of his neck and shoulder, and hisses at the sensation. His sleeping nerves begin calling for attention and the pain reawakens. He moans softly.

"Come on, Jim, it's me. Open your eyes." He does. Bones is there, crouching over him, looking concerned and frantic. "Good boy. We're getting you out of here."

"Not supposed to be here…"

McCoy looks at him strangely, then places a hand on his forehead. "Don't worry about that, okay? You're safe now, that's what's important."

His thoughts are sluggish, cloudy. "Don' wanna go home," he murmurs. "Where's Frank?"

"Frank? Who's Frank? Was there someone here with you, Jim?"

"No!" Jim blinks in confusion. "Bones," he breathes. "Finally."


End file.
